All The Arrows
by Harkpad
Summary: The fire licks his heels when he walks. It's there. It burns. It sets him on edge and forces him to keep his distance from other people. No one else can see the fire, but Clint long ago stopped thinking he was crazy just because he could see it and feel it. The seer woman in the circus could see it, too, and she assured him he wasn't nuts. An origin story for Clint Barton.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Thanks again to dysprositos for being a wonderful beta reader. This one was a tough one to wrangle. Note: while I don't proclaim this true 'magical realist' fiction, it does have one element of it. The fire is both metaphorical (for us) and real (for Clint). This is a prequel to my fic titled "Fireproof," but it's not necessary to have read It (prequel **__**). Comments are welcome, concrit is helpful. **_

_**Warnings: Child and spousal abuse, canon-typical violence, and eventual (very, very light) **__**pre**__**-slash of the Clint/Coulson variety. I promise you'll **__**really**__** have to squint for that bit. **_

* * *

"_How blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver in comparison with those of guilt." – Robert Blair_

"_Fear is the tax that conscience pays to guilt." – George Sewell _

_**Prologue**_

The fire started when Clint was seven and a half, if he was being brutally honest about his memories. On days when he couldn't handle that much distance, he would say it started when he was about seventeen.

The fire licks his heels when he walks. It's there. It burns. It sets him on edge and forces him to keep his distance from other people. No one else can see the fire, but Clint long ago stopped thinking he was crazy just because he could see it and feel it. The seer woman in the circus could see it, too, and she assured him he wasn't nuts.

Later, he would read about psychosomatic pain and attribute it to that, although he didn't really believe that was the case. (And it didn't mean he was crazy.)

After all, there were rules to the fire that brushed Clint's feet every day.

It _was_ fire and it _hurt_.

It could be diminished with action, but not extinguished entirely.

It flared in the right conditions.

It never went away.

_When Clint met Agent Phil Coulson, those rules changed._

**I.**

He was seven and a half when his parents died in an explosive car crash just down the street from their small house in Waverly, Iowa.

Earlier that evening, Clint's father, a six foot tall man with a grizzled face and dirty blond hair, had lunged for Clint, growling, "You're a mouthy son of a bitch," after Clint cussed him out for hitting his mother. Clint tried to run, but his dad caught him roughly by his shirt collar and his heavy, calloused hands clenched Clint's shoulders. He wrapped one arm around Clint's waist as he picked the screwdriver up from the green Formica covered kitchen table. He said, "Your mother deserves what I give her. She's a bitch, and she babies you. You deserve this, too, you little shit,", and he hit Clint hard against the cheekbone with the screwdriver handle.

Clint yelped as the yellow screwdriver handle connected with his cheek and his mother cried behind them. His father dropped him heavily on the kitchen floor and grabbed his mother's hand. "We're gettin' outta here for a while. Let the punk rethink gettin' involved in our business. Come on," he snarled, and dragged her out to the car, leaving his half-empty bottle of whisky sitting open on the kitchen table and Clint cowering in the corner.

Clint watched as they left, wondering where his dad would take her, feeling bad that she got dragged away with him when Clint was just trying to stand up for her. He picked himself up off the tile floor and stood on his tiptoes to pour the whiskey down the sink (guaranteeing another beating later, but Clint didn't care), and he dug in the freezer for a handful to pack into the tattered dish towel he'd pulled from a scuffed drawer. He wrapped the ice in the towel and then made his way to the living room couch and collapsed, holding the ice to his cheek. It was already swelling and was burning as the bruise came on.

"What'd you do this time, Clint?" Barney asked disinterestedly. He was twelve and sitting in a chair with his legs sprawled out looking at a comic book.

"Just told him to leave mom alone, that's all," Clint replied, his voice muffled by the towel full of ice.

"You're an idiot," Barney sighed. "It won't help, and you know it just makes him angrier when you get involved."

"Yeah, but he stopped hitting mom for a minute," Clint countered, giving Barney a cold stare. It might have been pointless, but he wasn't going to stop trying to help his mom.

They sat in silence for a while, and when the ice had thoroughly numbed Clint's face he sighed and got up again. He threw the remaining ice in the sink and hung the towel up on the stove before heading for the coat closet and grabbing his blue nylon jacket and baseball hat. He shrugged it on and called, "I'm going down to the playground," before heading out.

The playground was safe and had lots of high places he could climb to. Climbing _always_ made him feel better. It was like he was getting away, and he was doing it under his own control. It calmed him down.

It was just as he reached the end of the street that he saw his father's beat up green Pinto come screeching around a corner, heading for their house. They must have just run down to the corner store for more booze or something, but his dad had probably already started in on it as he drove home.

The car fishtailed as it rounded the corner, and Clint stopped and stared, realizing his father was completely out of control of the car. He was going way too fast for a drive down their street. A hundred yards from where Clint was standing, the car spun out on the pavement and careened into an old oak tree in front of a neighbor's house.

It exploded on impact. Later, the cops would tell him and Barney that the car must have been doing at least sixty to explode like that. Clint didn't doubt it. The fire was bright and the world went silent as Clint could feel the heat from the explosion where he stood. After the shock of the scene wore off a bit, he heard muffled voices of neighbors and he wandered closer to the wreck.

The car was already unrecognizable, a twisted mess of blackened, burning metal. Clint felt his chest grow cold the closer he got to the fire, but he wasn't going to stop. He was walking toward the car with a purpose: he wanted to find his mother. She would make him warm again. She would fix this. When his father wasn't home, Clint's mother doted on him and made sure he felt safe and warm. He needed that now, even as part of him realized that his world had just ended with a bang.

The part of him that knew his mother was already dead was silent as Clint approached the tree.

Heat radiated from the crash and the cold fear in Clint's chest melted a little as he got closer to his mother, but suddenly a neighbor hollered something and grabbed him by his arm and yanked him backward. He stumbled back and the neighbor dragged him to the curb and pulled him down into his lap. It was Mr. Keener from a few doors down. "Wait, Clint. Wait. The fire department and police are coming." His voice sounded like it was coming down a tunnel.

Clint wasn't listening, though. He was staring at his own feet. They were on fire. The soles of his blue canvas tennis shoes had tiny orange wisps of flame curling around them. Clint's feet were hot, too, and he was afraid. He squirmed in Mr. Keener's arms – Mr. Keener who drank with Clint's father when he could and undoubtedly knew where the bruise on Clint's cheek had come from – and stomped his feet on the pavement to smother the flames.

"What the hell, Clint?" Mr. Keener asked, his deep voice rumbling. Clint had always found that voice frightening; right now was no exception. Clint wriggled away, sliding to the street on his butt, stomping his feet and yelling. His feet were burning. People were just watching him, though. No one moved to help, and it wasn't until Barney ran up that Clint realized no one else even knew what he was yelling about.

"Clint!" Barney shouted, and Clint stopped stomping.

He looked up at Barney and then down at his smoldering feet. "My feet are on fire, Barney," he cried. "It hurts."

Barney stared down at his feet and then back up at Clint, and then he took a cautious step closer to his little brother. "No, Clint, they're not on fire. They're fine." He paused and looked behind Clint at the tree and car. After a beat he said, "Mom and Dad are dead, Clint. They're the ones on fire."

Clint turned and looked at the wreck again, and then looked down at his feet. Despite what Barney said, they still burned, and he could still see the flames. But Clint realized his shoes were undamaged. He lifted his right foot and waved his hands through the flames. They were cool. But when he set his foot back down on the ground his feet felt like they were burning and it _hurt_.

Clint looked up at Barney and tears started streaming down his face. His mother was dead, and it was his fault. The fire burned his feet, but he clenched his teeth and tried to ignore it. No one else could see it; they didn't think it was real, so no one would help him.

Barney's green eyes were stormy, but no tears tracked down his cheeks. Clint knew he was being tough and that he should be, too, so Clint wiped his face roughly with his sleeve and moved to stand next to his big brother, trying to ignore the burn of his shoes and the roaring in his ears.

Police and fire trucks arrived on the scene and more neighbors gathered around. Later, after the police determined that Clint and Barney didn't have any relatives or friends that could take them in and the boys had been sent to a shelter for the night, Clint pulled his shoes and socks off and lifted his feet off the ground.

The flames subsided as Clint went to sleep on a cot next to Barney, but he woke up with a huge dark bruise on his cheek, his parents dead because he drove them out of the house, and when he put his shoes back on and stood up, the fire was back, licking his feet and scorching his soles. He and Barney were alone, and after they buried their parents with the help of the state, they were told to gather enough belongings for a suitcase and were sent to a foster home.

Clint's ears felt better after a few days; though he could tell they were different. Sometimes people had to raise their voice to get Clint's attention, and he was lousy at hearing soft conversations. He learned to ignore the dampener on the sounds of the world, but he had a harder time ignoring the fire that burned him every day.

Sometimes it was too much to bear. The foster homes were fine at first, but Clint had a knack for making grown men angry, and found himself getting hit again, just like at home. Barney was better at placating adults; his four year age difference and more of his mother's temperament earned him fewer beatings than Clint. _Every_ time Clint messed up, the fire flared. He would trip over a rule and the flames would rise even before the foster parent's fist.

Clint hated foster care. The flames on his feet were nothing compared to getting shuffled to a new home every few months, trying and failing to learn new rules of a house. Getting hit, kept from food, and cussed at regularly. While he wasn't new to any of those things, coming from strangers it was harder than before.

One night, after a man shoved Clint down a flight of stairs, Barney found him huddled, bleeding from a cut on his forehead and trembling all over in the closet near the stairs.

"You're gonna get yourself killed, Clint," Barney said with a frustrated sigh as he dragged Clint out of the closet and straight out the front door of the house. "Come on," he shouted over his shoulder as he jogged down the street, "I've got our stuff stashed." Clint felt the fire on his shoes flaring even hotter than when they'd gotten thrown into the foster system, but he ignored it and followed his big brother down the street. Barney wasn't lying; he'd packed up Clint's suitcase for him and hid it under a big pine tree at the nearby playground.

They pulled the suitcases out and began walking, Clint grimacing with each step. "Where are we going, Barney?" he asked as they stopped so Clint could dig out his jacket and pull it on.

"The circus," Barney replied. "At least we won't get shuffled around there."

Clint grinned. Barney was so smart.

They _did_ go join the circus, too – Barney talked the owner into it, citing Clint's cleverness (Clint didn't know about that) and his own growing strength (Barney was on the verge of being a teenager and had begun to fill out) as good assets for the circus. The owner just shrugged, spit into the dirt at their feet and said the boys who'd been hauling the animal shit had ditched at the last town and Clint and Barney looked smart enough to at least do that.

They did it, and they learned quickly how to fit into the circus world: work hard, don't complain, and stay out of the way.

Two years later, Clint found the best way to dampen the fire that plagued him.

"Get your ass down outta those rafters, you useless little shit!" the swordsman hollered.

Clint knew better than to ignore the swordsman when he had that tone in his voice. The beatings Clint had taken from his own father were nothing compared to getting handled by the swordsman. He'd swear the guy broke his cheekbone once. So he scrambled down the ropes to the floor of the tent and dusted himself off.

"Trick Shot wants to see you. Thinks one of you punks might be useful for his act. Get over to his practice range, now."

The fire at Clint's feet flared as he trekked across the grass around the tents to the field behind the set-up. On days he could stay hidden and just get his chores done without notice, the fire was low and not nearly as hot. Getting called out in front of one of the main attractions of the circus, though, smelled of danger, so the flames burned. Clint's jaw was clenched and he was almost limping by the time he got to the field.

"About damned time, Barton," Trick muttered. The four other boys lined up near him, including Barney, smirked at him. He took his place next to Barney and kept his mouth shut.

"I need some spice in my act, according to old man Carson," Trick Shot sneered. He was a tall, lean man with jet black hair cut loose, but not long. He was handsome, with green eyes and a sharp nose, and he could charm the hell out of an audience on any given night. His voice was dark velvet, even when it was filled with scorn. His act was pretty much what his name suggested, and he could hit any target with any weapon. He could use throwing knives, a shotgun, and even a bow and arrows. Clint would stand behind the bleachers as often as he could to watch Trick's act. It still took his breath away, even two years in.

Clint didn't even follow where Trick was going with the conversation until he pulled out a beat-up recurve bow. "One of you punks is gonna get a shot in my act next week. One of you is gonna spice up the show. Carson thinks if a kid can pull off some tricks, it'll draw in a younger crowd."

Clint felt the fire flare again and drew a sharp breath filled with fear and hope and awe. As the other boys grinned and muttered things like 'hell, yeah,' Clint just stared at the bow. There was a box of throwing knives on the ground, too, but Clint only saw the bow. It was a dark red wood with a beat up grip, and it was beautiful. He took a hesitant step forward without thinking.

"You volunteering first, little Barton?" Trick asked with a grin. "Good. You're probably too damn small to use it anyway. Let's get this over with."

Trick was right. Clint _was_ smaller than the other boys. He was going on eleven, but he hadn't hit a growth spurt in a while. He was short. But he didn't care. He was going to shoot that bow. He stepped forward again, ignoring the pain in his feet. He pulled the bow out of Trick's hands and moved to face a target that had been set up about twenty five yards away.

"Here, let me show you. Give you half a chance," Trick Shot said, and he lifted the bow in Clint's hands so it was the right height, and he slid an arrow onto the string and showed Clint how to nock it.

The field was brown and dusty from old corn stalks and there was a slight breeze, but it was sunny and the sky was blue behind the target. Clint drew the bow and felt it wobble in his hands, so he took a deep breath to steady himself. He let the breath out and loosed the arrow, and the world faded away to just the brown of the field, the sky, and the target. His feet felt cool for the first time in years. The arrow hummed through the air and the bow string snapped Clint's arm, sending a jolt of pain across his skin, and then there was a thwack as the arrow hit the target.

The world around him faded back into view as Clint heard Trick mutter, "Well I'll be damned." Clint shook his head and looked at the target. The arrow had not hit the bull's eye, but it had hit the ring next to it. A shudder went through Clint's body and he turned to look at Trick, who was shaking his head.

"Do it again," he said sharply, thrusting another arrow into Clint's hand. "Without my help."

Clint nodded and mirrored what Trick had done a second ago to nock the arrow on the bowstring, then he lifted the bow again. As he raised the bow the same thing happened. The grumblings of the other boys faded away, the smells of the circus disappeared, and the flames at his feet vanished. He lined up the shot more carefully this time, took a deep breath, let it out, and released the arrow, again feeling the snap of the bowstring against his arm and seeing only the field, the target, and the sky.

"Holy shit!" he heard Barney yell, and once again the world faded back into view. His own jaw dropped a little when he saw that the arrow had hit the bull's eye this time. Not direct center, but still. He stood, staring at the bow in his hands, running his right hand down the shaft of the bow in wonder. It was at that moment that he realized that the fire on his feet was gone. There was no pain, no heat, not even a simmer. He looked up to see Trick Shot scowling.

"Try the knives," he snapped, opening the case at his feet and handing Clint a blade with a short brown handle and pulling the bow from Clint's hands. Clint didn't let go of the bow easily, though, suddenly afraid that he'd never get it back, and Trick had to yank. "Stupid punk. Don't matter how good you are with the bow. If you can't do the knives, you can't be in the show."

Clint looked down at the blade in his hand and felt warmth in his feet again. He shifted the knife a little, and recalled sneaking out here with Barney a few times after lifting the case from Trick's tent. He grinned to himself and turned to the target.

"You can get a little closer," Trick said, so Clint stepped up until he was about fifteen yards from the target. He turned sideways like he'd seen Trick do, took a deep breath, and threw.

"God damn it!" One of the other boys yelled, and Clint grinned outright as he looked at the knife sitting in the very center of the bull's eye. He turned to see Trick looking at him oddly, but then Trick shrugged and said, "Okay, who's next?"

Clint stepped back and the fire at his feet flared as the other boys stepped forward one by one. No one could beat what Clint had done with the bow, though, even Barney, who did manage to do just as well as Clint with the knives. Clint held his breath as Trick cleaned up the target after the last boy went. Trick turned back to them and fixed his gaze on Clint.

"I want you to stay. Everyone else, get the hell outta here," he commanded, and the other boys departed, cussing Clint out. He'd have to watch himself for a few days, it looked like.

But that didn't matter right now, and Clint stared at the bow Trick was holding like it was his salvation.

It was.

It was also his downfall.


	2. Chapter 2

**II. **

Clint only got better at the bow, spending all his free time at the edge of a field nocking, drawing, and releasing, feeling the pain in his feet vanish every time he lifted the bow. Trick showed him how to measure angles, how to judge distance and speed, and how to make the bow an extension of his body. He told Clint he'd never seen anyone take to a weapon like that, told him he was going to be a main attraction at the circus within a couple years, and he was right.

After Clint joined Trick Shot's act, he was divided. The moments with the bow in the center of the ring were magic, drenching the fire at his feet with calm and clarity and joy. The roar of the crowd actually made his feet cool, filled Clint with pride, and made the world disappear around him.

But after he became a main attraction ("The Amazing Hawkeye!"), the fire still flared whenever Barney was around.

Because after the show, he had to put the bow away.

"You think you're hot shit, you asshole," Barney growled as another boy pinned Clint's arms behind his back. "You're making better money, the crowd loves you, Trick worships you – you're the man, huh?" He pulled his fist back and slammed it into Clint's belly, knocking the air out of him and leaving him gasping in the older boy's arms. "You're still a stupid little shit, Clint," Barney snapped, this time pulling back and decking him across the chin.

Barney was a lot bigger than Clint now that he was sixteen, favoring their mother's side of the family with his height and bulk, and pain exploded across Clint's face. He squirmed, startled by the sudden flare at his feet along with the way his chin was already swelling.

"You'll give me a cut, you understand?" Barney demanded, stepping closer to Clint. "I got us this circus gig to begin with. I looked out for you, and you'll give me a cut. Or I'll tell the strong man you're stealing his pornos."

The fire at Clint's feet raged and he nodded furiously. "Okay," he said, breathlessly. He figured Barney was right, anyway. "You don't have to hit me, Barney. I'll give you some of my cut. You deserve it."

"Damn right I do, you punk," he said, and then he hit Clint in the eye and shoved him to the ground.

Out of one eye, Clint watched him walk away and wondered how his protector turned into his bully, and the pain in his feet became crippling. He staggered back to his bunk and curled into a ball on his cot, hot tears streaming silently down his cheeks.

This was the way it worked: Clint found relief when he was practicing or performing with his bow. There was nothing else then, just the bow, the arrow, the target, and Clint. Trick got him an arm guard, practice formed calluses on the tips of his fingers, and when he shot his bow there was no pain in his world. Barney wasn't there, the ghost of his mother wasn't there, and the fire wasn't there. When he was working with his bow, he felt pure.

When he put his bow away, though, the fire returned. Barney would come to collect and then he'd shove Clint away, and so, alone, Clint began to live only to find time to shoot.

Once, after a show in front of a tough crowd, Clint was caught off guard on the way back to the trailer he shared with Barney and a few of the other boys. The circus had just picked up a new seer, a tall, dark-haired exotic-looking woman who read palms and even had a crystal ball. She called out to him.

"Hawkeye!"

He was startled. He was polite to her whenever he saw her, and thought she was beautiful, but they hadn't interacted much. He looked over at her now and her eyes were wide, staring at his feet. He swallowed hard and strode toward her. "Yes, ma'am?"

She beckoned him to follow her, and he did, wondering what, exactly, she had seen.

It couldn't have been the flames at his feet, even as they burned hot tonight. A hard crowd usually meant blame getting thrown around, and Trick certainly wouldn't take it. Clint figured he'd get blamed, and he knew there was a beating ahead of him tomorrow at practice. He'd been tired during the show today, and it might have been obvious.

So the flames were hot, burning bright, but she _couldn't_ have seen them. That was impossible. No one had ever seen them. He'd told Barney about them after their parents died, but after a few "you're being insane, Clint," remarks he'd learned to keep his mouth shut about it.

The seer woman led Clint out to the edge of the circus, where the corn fields of the nearby town unfolded under the bright stars. She turned to him and stared into his eyes. She took a deep breath took a step toward him.

Startled, he stepped back. "Ma'am?" he asked quietly.

She cocked her head and looked from his feet to his face. "You have a reflector," she said, very matter-of-fact. "I have heard of them, but I have never seen one."

He frowned at her. "A reflector?" he asked. "Do you mean my fire?"

She nodded. "It's a reflection of a part of you made manifest. It is very rare."

He stood quietly for a full minute. "No one's ever been able to see it. I wondered if it was reflection of insanity." He sounded flippant, but he wasn't. He really had figured that even though he could see it and very clearly feel it, it was probably him just being a little nuts after his shitty childhood.

"You're not crazy, Hawkeye," she said gently. "Just unlucky. I am sure it's painful."

He nodded and she sighed.

"I can't help you, but I wanted to tell you I saw it. You may not meet anyone else who can," she said gently.

He took a deep breath and stepped back. "It's okay. It's been here a long time. I'm used to it." This was true, although he hated it. He knew when it flared he couldn't do anything except shoulder through the pain. He was going to walk away, but he looked back at her. "And thank you. It helps to know someone else can see it."

After that night, she would find him occasionally and ask how he was doing, and would even offer lotions and herbs for him to soak his feet in from time to time. He accepted them with a grateful smile and found a little relief before the next flare.

It worked for a couple of years.

When Clint was sixteen and had made it through his growth spurts, he was still a few inches shorter than Barney and, well, most boys his age. He was tough, though, using his body as a tool and taking care of it as such. He knew the second he stopped being good enough would be when he lost everything. Barney didn't seem to care about Clint anymore except for his cut of the earnings, and everyone else was too wrapped up in their own troubles to care about a loner sixteen year-old sharpshooter.

Clint still hid up high when he could manage it, still gritted his teeth against the flames at his feet, and still thought he was lucky to have anything at all, much less a headliner gig. He smiled a bit each time he saw the Hawkeye posters, and the sight of his bow steadied every nerve in his body like nothing else could.

Then he was in the wrong hiding place at the wrong time and everything changed.

Again.

"We can do this," Clint heard Trick say sharply, and he peered down from the rigging of the tent to see Trick, Barney, and the swordsman huddled around a card table. "Carson will never know it was us, and we can pin it on Ramsey easily. Then we can split. Finally." Trick's voice was hushed, low.

"It's going to be dangerous," the swordsman countered. "Is it gonna be worth it?"

Clint was watching Barney's face, knowing he was deferring to the adults but willing to go along for the ride and a cut if he could get it. It took Clint a minute, but he figured out what they were talking about. Robbing Carson. The guy who had taken Clint and Barney in when they had nothing but a suitcase. The heat at his feet smoldered. His concentration wavered and the rigging slipped a little, making a rough noise in the tent.

The men snapped their necks up and Clint froze, but it wasn't good enough. He was too easy to spot.

"Hey," Trick drawled, pushing his chair back and standing slowly. "It's the little Hawk. Come on down. It seems we have business to discuss."

Clint swore he saw Barney pale a little, but his face turned to stone quickly. He nodded at Clint, and Clint sighed and started climbing down, nausea settling in the pit of his stomach. He reached the ground quickly, but the swordsman was waiting for him and he was grabbed by his shirt collar and dragged roughly down into the dirt, lying splayed out on his back. Trick Shot's boot ended up on Clint's neck, pressing slightly.

"Nosy little Hawk," Trick said quietly. Clint kept his mouth shut, knowing talking would only make matters worse.

"He might be able to help us," Barney interjected, stepping into Clint's line of sight. "He's little, and he's quick." Clint was grateful for the attempt, but he could see in the swordsman's eyes that it was useless.

"He's just one more person to cut it with," Trick answered. "No, he ain't helping." His boot pressed harder down on Clint's throat, and Clint gagged a little, feeling pain blossom along his neck. "We're doing this tonight, and he's not gonna get in our way."

Clint couldn't help the trembling that started in his chest as he watched Trick pull a knife out of its sheath on his leg.

"Trick, no," Barney pleaded, and he stepped toward Clint.

But Trick didn't listen; he just flipped the knife blade into his hand and threw it downwards. Clint felt the metal slide into his stomach, but it didn't hurt at first. Trick lifted his boot off of Clint's throat and Clint managed to get a yell out before the boot connected with his head and the world spun. He closed his eyes against the nausea and the burn in his feet became nothing compared to the fire in his belly. He opened his eyes wide and saw Barney standing over him, eyes empty.

Clint tried to plead with his brother, but when he moved his mouth, all that came out was a trickle of blood. Barney was motionless above him, his green eyes dark.

Time seemed to stand still.

But then Barney shook his head and Clint heard Trick growl, "We gotta get outta here." Barney turned and walked away, and as they left his field of vision Clint found his voice again.

Heavy with pain, he cried out, "Barney, please! Help me, don't leave me, please Barney!" But the flames at Clint's feet raged and the pain in his stomach clawed its way through Clint's chest and spots danced in his eyes. He laid gasping, feeling blood seep through his fingers clasped over his stomach, and then he heard footfalls and voices crying out for an ambulance, and to go find the bastards who did this, and what the hell was Hawkeye doing bleeding on the dusty floor of the tent?

He tried to call out to his big brother again, but his voice left him and the world faded away.

That was the year he quit the circus. Even after his knife wound healed and he snuck out of the hospital and found his way back to Carson's circus route, nothing was the same. Trick and Barney and the swordsman had all disappeared the night of Clint's stabbing, and while the performances and practice time vanquished the flame at his feet, it was worse than ever when he didn't have his bow in his hands.

He was shaky all the time, he lost weight, and the few people he ever bothered to hang out with seemed distant. It was too much effort to stay engaged, so he retreated. He convinced one of the older clowns to help him buy a gun, a pistol, and taught himself how to use it. He saved his money, though, and six months after he returned, when he turned seventeen, he quit. He took his bow, gun, and knives and hid out until the circus pulled away from the small town in Illinois where they were playing. He watched the caravans drive off, his hand resting absently on his belly, his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, and his feet warm against the ground.

He had about a thousand dollars saved, which he figured would get him by for a while at least. It did, but about four months later, when the money ran low, he was left in New York City with a recurve bow, a set of throwing knives, and a 9 millimeter pistol that he didn't even have a permit for.

His feet burned every day. The orange flames weren't even wispy now; they were thick, rolling off his feet with every step. He needed to shoot his bow, but he was too busy trying to find work, trying to find a place to stay at night.

Work finally found him; there was always someone looking for a hired gun, and Clint had learned enough street jargon to get him around, so he took a job on a tip from a guy he saw regularly at the corner store he frequented.

The guy had followed him out one night and whistled at him, like a dog. "You look like you need work," he said, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes. Clint looked around and then nodded. He really was getting kind of desperate. "Here," the man said, and handed him a business card. "You look kind of tough, too, and they need tough guys." Clint stared down at the card and up at the man, nodding. He said a quick 'thanks,' and then headed toward the address.

The guy in charge thought Clint looked tough, too, and Clint told him he was a good shot, too. After a brief demonstration at a warehouse nearby, the job was his.

He stashed his bow and all but two of his knives in a locker along with his duffel bag of possessions, and went out on his first hit. He was going on eighteen and needed money, so he didn't ask many questions. They gave him a picture, an address, and a clip for his gun. He wanted to use his bow, but even he was smart enough to know that a calling card wasn't something he could afford.

The address was an upscale part of town near one of the major club scenes. The photo Clint held in his hand was of a middle aged man with a black moustache and short, black hair. He looked like a businessman. Taking a deep breath, Clint headed toward the address. When he got close, he took to the roofs, finally arriving at the right building around dusk. He only had a couple hours before his boss wanted the hit done, and then he had to lay low for twelve before reporting back to get his money.

He had his gun tucked into his brown leather jacket (a treasure he'd bought himself when he was fifteen after two years as a headliner) and he dropped back down to street level and casually entered the apartment building. It wasn't too swanky, but it did have security, so Clint couldn't get up to the address he needed. He _was_ able to grab a brochure about the place from the front desk before he headed back out to the street. It had a map of the building, and Clint crouched down on the steps of another building a few doors down to look at it.

Fifteen minutes later he had his eye on the mark's window. He was on the fire escape of another building, watching. The guy showed up about an hour in, and Clint tensed as the light went on in the apartment and he pulled his gun from his pants and checked around. The alley he was in was deserted, he had a silencer on his gun, and the mark was clearly taking his coat off inside. Clint raised his gun, took a deep breath, let it out, and shot. The mark dropped to the floor and Clint scrambled to the roof, knowing he'd killed his first person. He made it two roofs away before the fire at his feet roared and crackled like never before, and he tumbled to his knees taking deep, heaving breaths.

He listened for sirens but didn't hear anything, so he threw up and then curled into a ball in the corner of the roof he was on, clenching his hair in his fists and screaming through his teeth as quietly as he could manage. The pain was excruciating.

He finally unfurled from the corner and pulled himself up, knowing that staying in the neighborhood was just plain stupid. He ignored the fire, pushing it to the back of his mind, and weaved his way across roofs and then through back alleys until he was on his side of town again. He had thirty dollars in his pocket and so he found a cheap hotel, checked himself in, found his room, and curled up in the bathtub fully clothed for a few hours, flinching every so often when the sound of the silenced bullet leaving his gun replayed itself in his head.

He couldn't sleep, but he eventually climbed out of the bathtub, stripped down, and took a long, hot shower, clenching his eyes shut and trying to get the picture of the businessman out of his head.

He collected his money and another job assignment the next day, but the boss cheated him. He only gave him half the money, one hundred and fifty bucks, and demanded that Clint do another hit. Clint tried to fight it, but they held the hit over his head and had three burly guys standing there to enforce the new arrangement. He took the money they were offering. And the new job.

He started carrying peppermint gum in his pocket, didn't hide in any more bathtubs, and stopped puking quite so much. He also got very good at what he was doing. Eighteen came and went and Rick, the guy running the hits he'd been doing, started farming Clint out to other bosses who needed guaranteed kills.

The fire always licked, sometimes roared, and never ever retreated.

Three years in and the hits got more complicated. Clint still got sick every so often, especially when a family was involved, but he'd finally gotten enough jobs that were taking down truly hideous people that he'd learned to justify it and focus on getting good at what he was doing. He'd given up on moving, though. Rick, his boss, knew how to manipulate Clint, and held the law _and_ thugs over Clint's head every time he got too mouthy.

He was a natural, though, at not getting caught. He could climb any wall there was, he could parkour with the best of them, and he was quick and thorough. He'd been in a few tight spots – he could now point to some of his scars and say they weren't from the hands of people supposed to be looking after him – but he'd never been seriously injured.

Until he got asked to take down another hit man.

He thought it sounded like a good challenge. Take down another gunner and build his rep even more, _and_ get paid good money to do it. Seemed like a good gig. The shooter he was after had a file two inches thick, and Clint was given an extra day's prep time, which was impressive. He usually only got a day, tops. So he sat in a coffee shop in Chicago thumbing through pages of reports. There were only a few grainy photos of his target, and he almost spilled his coffee when he saw the first one.

Barney looked older, but it was unmistakably him.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Clint lost some time as he stared at the file; when he reached for his coffee to try and steady his hands it was cold. He closed the file, gathered his things, and practically stumbled out of the restaurant. The fire at his heels raged, and fear coursed through his veins as he hurried down the street to the hotel he was crashing at for the moment.

The walk cleared his head a little, so after he locked his door behind him and checked the room once, he sat down on the couch and looked at the file again. Barney was clearly in the city, and was becoming a threat to Rick's operation. He was too good at his job. It didn't say who Barney was working for, but Clint read between the lines and realized it was probably Trick. He set the file down again and leaned back on his couch, running his hands through his hair and taking deep breaths.

All the deep breaths in the world wouldn't change the fact that Clint couldn't kill him.

There was no way he could do it, but if he didn't, then Rick would kill Clint and then send someone else after Barney and kill him anyway.

If they caught him.

That was the key. Clint had to warn Barney and they'd both have to disappear. The meager life Clint had built for himself would be over. That didn't bother him too much; he didn't _like_ what he was doing, he just didn't know how to stop doing it. Here was his chance. He would choose not to kill his brother, the first real choice he'd made in years.

First, he had to prep for his own departure. He sifted through his bag and found the thick case that held his alternate IDs. He'd have to go farther than he'd been before. He had a vague plan to head to Seattle; it seemed like a calm place. He gathered his belongings into his duffel, armed himself again, and went to find Barney.

The file didn't offer much, but Clint knew how Trick thought about things. Clint headed for an area of town with a lot of nightlife and access to hookers, but he didn't have much luck. He stowed his stuff in the closest bus station, and only kept the gun and a couple of knives with him. He asked questions, moved between bars looking for any sign of his older brother all the way through the night. When morning came and he didn't have any leads, he found a place to curl up for a while and slept a little.

He spent the next day looking and failing as well, and he slept on the street again. When he woke and grabbed a cup of coffee from a nearby vendor, he realized he was being tailed. He had to find Barney soon; his own window would close today and Rick's guys would come find him.

Clint had to admit that the guy tailing him was good. He'd probably been on Clint since yesterday. But Clint was good enough at following people now that he knew the signs, and he knew how to lose someone. His climbing skills usually did the trick. He scaled a fire escape in an alley, jumped a few roofs, clambered down another, and found one more building to climb.

It didn't work.

Clint was stunned. But just as he was trying to figure out how to lose what was obviously a very skilled pursuer, he saw Barney buying a bagel from a vendor a half a block away. Clint forgot about the pursuer and sat down heavily on the steps of an apartment building, just watching his brother banter with the vendor, laugh and shake his head, and turn up the street to be on his way.

Barney looked good. He had his black hair cut shorter than Clint had ever seen it, his jeans were clean and tucked over shiny black cowboy boots, and he was wearing a bright red button down shirt over a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket thrown over that. He looked confident and strong, and Clint had to resist the urge to run to him and spill everything as if he were eight again.

Clint sucked in a shaky breath, stomped his feet against the flare of flame that rose at the sight of Barney, and stood to follow him. He pulled the baseball cap he was wearing down over his brow and pulled his jacket closer around his chest as he followed. He remembered that the person tailing him was still around. He was a guy in a suit, looked to be about thirty, wore dark sunglasses and had ducked into an alley as Clint was sitting down on the steps. Clint couldn't worry about him at the moment, though.

He couldn't lose Barney.

Barney was passing through a park, an older park that not many people frequented, especially at nine in the morning. Barney didn't seem like he was going to stop in the park, so Clint scrambled ahead of him and was able to step out on to the path in front of him a moment later.

He watched as Barney lowered his bagel from his mouth and stared, slack-jawed, at him.

"Hey, Barney," Clint offered, keeping a safe distance from his brother.

Confusion crossed Barney's face, and a trace of something hopeful flashed in his green eyes, but then anger dropped into place and Barney took a step toward Clint. "What the hell, Clint," he said, darkly, and Clint had forgotten how much like their father he sounded.

Clint took a sharp breath and backed up a step. "Wait. We have to talk, Barney. There's trouble." He could tell his voice was shaking, but he couldn't help it. He risked a glance to Barney's left to see if he could see the guy who'd been tailing him, but the guy had vanished.

Whatever. Clint just needed to convince Barney to disappear, and then he could worry about getting rid of the tail.

Barney's hand went to his jacket. "What kind of trouble, little brother? How did you find me?"

Clint ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a couple of pages from Barney's file. "I got hired to kill you."

Barney had to choke back a laugh, and he took a step back to look at Clint. "You're fucking kidding me, Clint. You couldn't kill a fly. You never had the stomach for fighting, much less killing." His voice got darker as he reached for the file, though, and Clint just stared.

"Are you working with Trick?" Clint asked.

Barney shook his head and sifted through the pages. He looked up at Clint incredulously. "You're serious, aren't you?" he asked.

Clint nodded. "You have to leave. You have to get out of the city and go somewhere else. I do, too."

"You couldn't kill me if you tried, Clint."

"Yeah, well, I'm not _going_ to try," he retorted, and he pulled out the bus ticket he'd bought earlier. "They're going to kill _me_ for not finishing this hit, and they're going to find someone else to kill you. I just wanted to warn you."

Just then Barney seemed to realize something. He stepped back, took a deep breath, and said, "Holy hell, Clint. You're Hawkeye." He wrapped his arms around his chest and ducked his head. "It didn't even occur to me," he said almost to himself, "Not even with the name. You've been pulling hits around this town for years, haven't you?"

Clint nodded. "I didn't have any other skills," he said quietly. "I didn't have anywhere to go, so I had to use what I had."

"Clint," Barney said desperately, "They're not going to let you get out of town, you know that, right? I know the guy you work for. He won't let you leave."

Clint shrugged. "The alternative isn't possible," he said simply. "You can get yourself out of here and you and Trick can set up somewhere else."

Barney cocked his head and looked at Clint as if seeing him for the first time. "I left you for dead."

Clint nodded and looked away. "Yeah, you did." There was silence between them. Nothing could fill it, after all, and Clint looked down at his feet and saw the flames rolling up again. He clenched his teeth against the heat. "Get out of here, Barney."

"Come with us, Clint," Barney said suddenly.

Clint's gut clenched at the thought, but he didn't say anything.

"I'll help you get away from your boss. I have good resources, you know."

"I know," Clint said through clenched teeth. "But then I'd be working for your boss," he added, and the thought of working for Trick made his stomach turn.

Barney thought for a moment. "We can go out on our own. We don't need him. You know what you're doing, and so do I. We can set up in a new city and be on our own again. No one to boss us around, no one to hurt us. Just us, like it used to be."

"There was always someone to hurt us, Barney," Clint replied sadly, and the fire flared again.

Barney nodded grimly. "Not anymore, Clint. Just us." His green eyes were wide, pleading, and his voice reminded Clint of the night when Trick stabbed him. Only now Clint had the power to say 'no.' Now Clint was the one making the choice, and he knew this wouldn't work. There might not be anyone around to hurt Barney, but Barney would always have the power to hurt Clint, and he couldn't take that anymore.

"No, Barney," Clint said softly, and the flames at his feet fell a little and the pain receded.

Suddenly Clint's eye caught movement to left behind Barney. He'd been so concerned with the suit that had been following him that he'd missed the guy in jeans and a hoodie who was stepping out from the shadows of the trees. The guy drew a bead on Barney, and Clint threw himself into his brother's chest, shoving him to the ground just as the shot rang out. Clint felt a bullet rip through his back as tumbled to the ground on top of Barney.

A second shot fired from behind Clint and Barney, though, and Clint looked up to see Rick's hoodie-wearing backup guy lying in a pool of blood on the ground. Drawing staggered breaths, Clint reached for his own gun and said, "Run, Barney. Get the hell out of here!" He rolled and found the guy in the suit standing about fifteen feet away, and he fired. He hadn't been aiming to kill – he didn't know who this guy was anyway – _and_ his aim was off, thanks to the hot coals that had somehow filled his lungs, so his shot went wide. But it was enough to make the suit duck behind a bench; Barney scrambled to his feet and looked down at Clint with anguish on his face.

"They'll throw you in jail or kill you, so go!" Clint tried to shout, but it came out feeble and he coughed as nausea rolled through his stomach from the pain. Barney looked down at him with fear in his eyes, but then he looked beyond the suit and he had backup coming, so he nodded and ran.

Clint tried to raise his gun again, but his arms were suddenly made of Jell-O, and he couldn't make them work. He closed his eyes against the swimming sky above him and heard himself taking quick, jagged breaths, each filling his chest with searing pain.

A moment later, he felt someone kneel down next to him and put their cool hand to his forehead.

"Lay still, Mr. Barton. An ambulance is on its way," the man said, and there was something about his voice that made some of the pain seep away, that made Clint's breaths come easier. Clint didn't know what it was, but it was a voice he wanted to hear again. He opened his eyes and tried to focus, but the world kept tilting away, and finally he gave up and just listened to the voice in his ear that was telling him he would be all right, that they would look after him.

That's when Clint figured the guy was telling the truth. Everyone who looked after him hurt him at some point; these guys were just getting it out of the way early. He tried to look at him again, but this time the world faded to black entirely.

Clint woke to stern voices and felt an IV in his hand and cool blankets covering his chest.

"You weren't supposed to bring him in, Coulson. He's a hit man, a killer," the first voice said, a man with a deep resonating voice.

"I know, but I made a different call," the other man said softly, and Clint relaxed a little at the sound of him, remembering the calm, comforting voice when he'd been shot.

"Have you read his file? You were supposed to get rid of him."

"I've read it. Have you?" the man replied. "He's just a kid caught in a bad situation."

"A kid with more than thirty confirmed kills."

"He missed me," the man from the park said lightly.

"He was shot through his lung at the time," the other man retorted.

"He never misses," the calm man said.

Clint just wanted to listen to him talk. He didn't care that they were arguing over him. He was in a hospital and being cared for and this man was sticking up for Clint in a voice that warmed Clint to his toes, but not in the painful way his fire did.

"He got shot saving his brother's life," the calm man added. "He's got potential."

Clint listened to them argue for a few moments more, but the calm man's voice washed over him and he fell back into darkness.

When he woke again, his back and chest hurt like hell. He was sore and had trouble drawing deep breaths. He opened his eyes and saw the calm man sitting in a chair near his bed, reading. He was still wearing a suit, although Clint would swear it was a different tie this time. Clint turned his head to look for ways out of the room and the man set down his book and moved to Clint's bedside.

"Hey," the man said quietly. "Glad you're awake, finally."

Clint didn't reply, just nodded. He felt out of his depth.

"You took a bullet to the back, and it punctured a lung. You've been out for three days and you've had one surgery. How are you feeling?"

Clint ignored the question since it was clearly just an attempt to be polite. "Who are you?" he asked softly, unable to muster much volume.

"I'm Agent Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. You're in our medical facility."

"Government?" Clint asked.

Agent Coulson smirked a little as he nodded, "Yes."

"Am I under arrest?" Clint asked, and that thought brought Barney back to his mind with a vengeance. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to sit up. "Barney –" His back lit on fire and he groaned, slumping back against the bed.

Agent Coulson pressed a hand to Clint's shoulder. "I don't recommend much motion right now, Mr. Barton. Your brother has disappeared, probably on the run thanks to your heroics."

"Nothing heroic about it," Clint protested through sharp breaths.

"You saved his life," Coulson argued.

"He saved mine first," Clint mumbled, closing his eyes.

"Rest, Mr. Barton. We'll figure out your situation when you've recovered," Coulson said softly.

Clint slipped back to sleep. The next time he woke he was alone in the room, but a nurse came in to check on him, upped his pain meds a bit when he reported an eight on the scale, and he was asleep again quickly. This happened again, but the third time Agent Coulson was back.

"You're looking a bit better, Mr. Barton," he said with a smile. "We should talk."

Clint almost blurted out that Coulson could talk to him until he died and Clint would be fine with that, but he reigned himself in appropriately. He nodded instead. "Why am I here?"

"Well," Coulson replied with a grin, "That's an existential question you'll have to work out for yourself, but I brought you to the hospital because you were going to die on the sidewalk otherwise, and it didn't seem like you actually deserved that."

Clint thought back to the argument he'd heard at his bedside. "But you were supposed to kill me," he said evenly.

Agent Coulson cocked his head to the side. "Yes, well, I was supposed to neutralize you as a threat. I'd argue I did what I was told."

"And the other guy who was in here earlier? What would he argue?" Clint asked.

Coulson chuckled. "The Director trusts my judgment. He just needed to see my point of view."

"Did he?"

"Yes. I'm here to offer you asylum within our organization. It can be temporary, perhaps permanent. That depends on several factors."

"What factors?" Clint asked, his voice rough from sleep. Coulson leaned over and offered him a glass of water. He lifted his hand to take it and pain exploded up his side. He winced and pushed himself back against the bed.

"Let me help," Coulson said softly. Clint nodded and accepted a drink from him. "We'd like you to take a couple of tests for us, one oral and one written, and we'd like you to let us help you heal from your wound. Once you've healed and taken the tests we can discuss your place here further."

"I can't take a test," Clint protested. He wanted to please this man with the calming voice and patient demeanor. He didn't know why, but he did. But he couldn't pass one test, let alone two, no matter how kind Coulson was, and he hated that.

"Why not?" the agent asked, sitting back in his chair.

"I haven't taken a test since a spelling test in fourth grade," Clint said quietly, feeling shame build in his chest, and his feet warmed at the end of the bed. There were people he knew at the circus who worked with Clint to keep him sharp on reading and writing, and he could spin a story over a fire with the best of them, but he hadn't been to school properly since he and Barney left foster care. He looked away to the window of the room, but he heard Agent Coulson sigh after a moment.

"We're willing to help, if you'll just try," he said, piercing Clint with his stare. "I know you don't have much formal education—"

"Fourth grade, Agent Coulson," Clint repeated. "I've never taken a real test."

"I disagree, Mr. Barton. I just think the tests you've taken most kids your age would fail."

Clint shrugged and looked away. "I can try, I guess."

Coulson nodded and stood. "If you'll take our tests and pass, then you can stay on with us for a probationary period."

"If I don't?" Clint asked, meeting Coulson's eyes.

"We'll figure that out when we need to, Mr. Barton."

Clint sighed and sank back to the bed. "You gotta call me something else, sir."

Coulson smiled. "Why?"

"I've never heard mister before my name in my life and it's kinda freaking me out," he said, grinning up at Coulson.

Coulson stared at him for a moment thoughtfully, shrugged his shoulders and said, "Get some rest, Barton. I'll check back with you tomorrow."

Clint found it easy to follow the man's order.


	4. Chapter 4

A few days later, when Clint could easily stay awake for at least an hour or two at a time and was eating more or less normally for him (which was never enough, according to the nurses), Agent Coulson brought someone along when he came to visit.

It was a woman, probably in her fifties, with black, graying hair halfway down her back and kind brown eyes. She was tall, at least six feet, and wore a pants suit with a jacket bearing a brilliant purple and silver swirl design. She smiled as soon as she saw Clint, reaching out to shake his hand.

"Agent Coulson tells me not to call you 'mister,'" she says, shaking his hand and then stepping back from the bed. "I'm usually just called Finch," she said, still smiling at him.

He shook her hand and looked over at Agent Coulson, who shrugged.

"Finch is here to talk to you a little and maybe give you one of those tests I was telling you about," Agent Coulson says lightly, a smile pulling at his eyes. "She promised not to make you spell anything."

Clint rolled his eyes. He didn't like things being sprung on him and this definitely qualified. "I'm not ready for a test, Agent Coulson," he said, his voice tight. He glanced nervously at his warm feet.

Finch interrupted their exchange gently. "It's not really anything to get ready for …" she suddenly looked confused. After a pause she leaned over Clint again and said softly, "So what _do_ I call you?"

He sighed and looked up at her. "'Clint' is fine. Agent Coulson seems to like 'Barton.' I really don't care."

She suddenly gave him a stern look and turned back to Agent Coulson. "Out," she said, pointing at the door.

"What?" Agent Coulson asked, clearly caught off guard, which Clint figured was probably pretty rare.

"Out," Finch said, standing up straight and suddenly looking fairly intimidating. "This is between me and this young man. I'll discuss things with you tomorrow morning in my office."

Clint didn't really like the thought of being left alone with this woman, but he did kind of like anyone able to ruffle the agent a little. It had to be good for the guy. He nodded crisply and stepped out the door, telling Clint he'd come back later to check on him.

Finch pulled a hair tie out of her pocket and quickly and smoothly pulled her hair back and tucked it into a ponytail. She looked younger with it pulled back and Clint really liked her eyes. She pulled a chair closer to the bed and then sighed. "How are you feeling, Clint?" she asked, gesturing to his bandages.

He shrugged. "A lot better than a few days ago. I've been doing some walking and they figure I can duck out of here in the next day or two."

"Where will you go?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.

Clint was startled. He figured since she was here to test him that she knew his situation. "Um, well, I guess they'll give me a place to stay until the tests are done."

She nodded and just looked at him for a moment. It was a little unsettling and she was starting to remind him uncomfortably of the seer back at the circus who always seemed to be staring at your soul when she talked to you. Clint didn't particularly want anyone looking at that anymore.

"What do you think of Agent Coulson?" Finch asked, finally.

Clint smiled. "He's cool. Seems genuine, you know? I figure if I screw up or have to leave he'll be the one to tell me." He paused, realizing something. "I'm okay with that."

She smiled at him. "Yes, he is genuine. That's a good description."

There was a comfortable silence and then Finch started asking more questions. Clint found her easy to talk to, answering about where he grew up, what the foster homes were like, and how he and Barney managed to get into the circus. For a long time it didn't seem like she wanted to know anything important and they were just talking.

Finally, she asked him, "Did you like your job as a hit man?"

It took him by surprise because he didn't figure anyone would really want to know much about that kind of job. Clint looked at her and said, "Why does it matter?"

She smiled and said, "It doesn't matter if you did or didn't. I just wondered which it was."

He shrugged and took a drink of water. "I was good at it."

"That's not what I asked."

Clint thought for a moment. "I was a hit man. They told me who to shoot, I shot them, and they gave me money. I guess some people like it, but I'm not sure what there is to like. It paid decent, but my boss was an asshole and did a lot of shitty things."

"How old were you when you started?" she asked.

He blanched, felt his feet flare a little, and had a brief second of wanting to clench his eyes shut as the photograph of the mustached businessman rose out of his memory. Then he had a sudden thought and then felt kind of stupid. "Are you a shrink?" he asked, glaring a little.

She smiled. "Yes."

He leaned back and looked out at the window. He'd heard that shrinks were sneaky and expensive, but he kind of liked Finch and he didn't have to pay her. He sighed and looked back at her. "I was almost eighteen." She looked startled, so he added, "I figure you guys already knew that sort of thing, though."

She leaned forward in her chair. "I don't have all the details," she said with a shrug. "That's young."

"I didn't have much else to offer in terms of skills," he replied quietly.

They talked for a few more minutes about some of Clint's 'career highlights,' and then she stretched and stood. "I have to go now, Clint, but if you ever want to talk again, my door's always open." She reached out her hand to shake his. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

He was startled, but he shook her hand. As she pulled back to walk out the door, he called, "Hey," and she turned around. "I thought you were going to give me a test?" he asked, confused.

She smiled at him and nodded. "Yes. I already did."

As she left, he wondered if he should be angry. Part of him thought maybe he should, but he ran through their conversation in his head and then shrugged to himself. As long as she got what she needed, he didn't mind so much, really. He was still worn out and grateful that he had a safe place to sleep.

Things went downhill from there, though.

A couple of days later, medical released him into Agent Coulson's care. As they left the infirmary after Clint changed into some government-issued sweatpants, a black t-shirt, and a grey hoodie, he realized how far in over his head he was.

The halls were a sterile grey with beige carpet and the place seemed like a maze. Clint was good with directions, but as Agent Coulson took him to where he'd be sleeping from medical he definitely got turned around. Everyone was also dressed either in a suit like Agent Coulson or in various uniforms, and they seemed very serious and a _lot_ older than Clint.

By the time they got to what Agent Coulson called his 'quarters', Clint's feet were burning again and he was exhausted. The door opened to reveal one room, about the size of a hotel room, but with a kitchen counter, microwave, refrigerator, and two-burner stove, and a TV on the wall facing the bed, all very state-of-the-art. The bed was a full sized bed with bland blue bedding, but it looked comfortable. There were two sitting chairs on the other side of the kitchen counter as well, and it was more space than Clint had ever had.

He crossed his arms across his chest, wincing a little.

"Sit down, Barton," Agent Coulson said gently, "Before you fall down."

Clint sighed and did what he was told. Coulson sat in the chair opposite, clearly appraising him.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Clint nodded. "A little tired, sir," he replied, and inadvertently added an "and-"

Of course the agent caught it. "And what?" he pushed.

Clint shrugged. It was just Agent Coulson, who had been kind so far. "And I've never been in one place this long in a few years is all. Feels weird."

"What about in the circus?" Agent Coulson asked. "How long did you guys stay in a town?"

Clint ran a hand down his face. "Sometimes a week. Occasionally two if the crowd was good. It varied."

"I'd like you to stay here a while, Clint," Agent Coulson said, startling Clint with the use of his name. "Give us a shot."

Clint sat forward in his chair. "I thought you said I had to pass two tests."

"Yes. You already passed one, and I've convinced the Director that the second isn't all that important."

Clint was curious. "What was the second one going to be?"

Agent Coulson grinned at him. "A spelling test."

Clint laughed. It was the first time he'd laughed in what felt like years, but this cracked him up for some reason.

Agent Coulson even chuckled, and he stood from his chair. "Sleep. There's a folder on your counter with directions to the cafeteria, to the PT facility, and to the gym. You've got PT at ten tomorrow morning and I expect to see you here at one. The rest of your time is yours. Oh, and there's a library marked on the map as well if you're interested."

Clint nodded and watched Coulson head for the door before he thought of something. "Sir?" he called out. Agent Coulson turned. "Do you know where my brother is?"

Agent Coulson shook his head. "No, Barton, we don't. But if you decide you want to find him, we'll help you."

And Clint believed him. It was the strangest thing, but Clint believed every word out of Agent Coulson's mouth, and he hadn't felt that way about anyone since he was seven and running away with Barney.

The next few days passed in a blur. Clint still tired out very easily – he decided getting shot was on top of the list of shitty things to have happen to you – and besides getting shuffled between PT appointments, being prescribed meals because his doctor decided he was underweight, and appointments with Agent Coulson to discuss the organization and various things about what they thought Clint could do for them, it seemed like he spent the rest of his time sleeping.

"Barton, this is Agent Hanson," Agent Coulson said one afternoon as Clint sat down next to him in the mess hall where they usually had most of their 'meetings'. Clint looked over to see a young man, close to Clint's age, dressed in a similar suit to Agent Coulson's. He had red hair cropped short, and he had the friendliest green eyes Clint had ever seen, not like Barney's cold ones.

Hanson nodded at Clint and said, "Hey. Agent Coulson wants me to show you around some of the more interesting facilities – show you what kinds of stuff you'd get to play with if you stay. That sound okay?" His voice was just as friendly as his eyes and Clint found himself nodding.

"Sure, I guess so," Clint said, reaching for his fork. He looked over at Agent Coulson.

Hanson stood, "I have an appointment in a few minutes. How about two this afternoon? I'll show you around and introduce you to a few people."

Clint nodded and Hanson left. He and Agent Coulson ate in silence for a few minutes before Clint mustered the courage to say what was on his mind. "I don't –" he faltered and Agent Coulson put down his own fork. "I mean, it's nice of you to introduce me to Hanson, but he doesn't have to introduce me around. I'm not here to make friends." He looked up at Agent Coulson, who was narrowing his eyes.

"I have to leave for a bit, Clint," the agent said, watching Clint very carefully. "I thought it would help if you knew someone besides your doctors and me. When I get back we'll be discussing your next steps quite thoroughly, and I thought that Hanson and some of the others would let you see what you'd be signing up for." He paused. "And if you do sign up, I'd think you'd want to make a few friends."

Clint looked down at his plate. He'd been on his own for three years as a hit man. He had a few coffee shops he liked to sit in and got to know the regulars' names, but he always gave them fake names, went home by himself and never slept in one place more than a few days. In the circus he'd had a few friends he'd play cards with every few nights, but no one he ever confided in or felt really comfortable around.

Friends weren't anything he ever really worried about. It was nice of Agent Coulson to try, though. He looked up and nodded. "Okay, thanks."

They finished their meal and Agent Coulson made sure Clint had his appointments for the next few days scheduled. Then he gave Clint a couple of books to read while he was gone before he departed. Clint wasn't sure why he felt so lonely as he watched him walk away, and the fire flared hotter than it had since he'd arrived.

Hanson was as nice as he seemed. He showed Clint the shooting range and laughed at Clint's reaction when he said there was an archery range there, too. "It's small; only a couple guys use it occasionally, but yeah, once you get cleared then you can probably use it. You like archery?"

It was Clint's turn to laugh. "Yeah, a bit."

He thanked Hanson at the end of the tour, and Hanson offered, "Agent Coulson said you're not sure about whether you want to join up. Do you want to come to dinner with a few of us and maybe ask any questions you might have? We're not trying to sell it the same way Agent Coulson is."

Clint wasn't sure. Dinner with a group was just as foreign as the idea of friends right now, and he was worn out from the tour, but he definitely had some questions. He looked at his watch.

"You probably need a break, huh?" Hanson said, his voice softer. "We usually don't go out until around seven anyway. Is that enough of a break?"

Clint figured he could sneak a two hour or so nap in with that kind of time. "Sure. Where do you guys go?"

"There's a restaurant on base we can go to. It's not as nice as going out, but they have a decent beer selection."

They agreed to meet there around seven, and Clint headed back to his room to to get some sleep, the thought of the archery range making his heart jump a little.

Having dinner with people close to his age who had real careers and a stable place to live was downright weird, and Clint was nervous the whole time. They were nice enough people, but he's essentially been a drifter since he was eight years old, and their normalcy made him jumpy even before the questions started.

"Where did you go to college, Barton?" one guy asked, Clint couldn't remember his name.

Flames stirred at his feet. "Nowhere," he replied, taking a drink of the cranberry juice and Sprite he ordered. ("You don't want a beer, Barton?" had been awkward, too. But he saw a tree on fire every time he thought of taking a drink, so it was always juice.)

"Really?" Jenson said into her glass. After she swallowed she added, "I thought it was required."

Hanson saw Clint's discomfort, though, and his green eyes twinkled a little. "Not if you're naturally smart enough," he threw in with a laugh, elbowing Clint in the side.

"Where'd you grow up, Barton?" Jenson asked instead.

Clint shrugged and looked away. "Moved around a lot. Mostly Iowa. Midwest," he said quietly. "What about you?" he asked her.

"New York City born and bred," she answered with a grin, and thankfully the conversation veered away from him for a while. He drank more juice, let the flames die down a little at his feet, and listened.

"So, Clint," Hanson finally said. "You should join up."

"Sure, Barton," the guy whose name Clint can't remember added. "It's a good gig. If you're smart and as good a shot as they say you are, you'll get to have some fun."

"Shooting people is fun?" Clint asked, genuinely curious.

The guy grinned. "Actually, snipers around here don't do a whole lot of shooting, on average really."

"What do they do?" Clint replied, puzzled.

"Reconnaissance," Jenson said.

"Overpriced security detail," Hanson said at the same time.

Clint looked at them. "I wouldn't have to kill all the time?" Coulson had kept using the term 'sniper' in his descriptions and Clint had just assumed.

"No," Jenson said, leaning forward, her blue eyes locking with Clint's. "You'd have to shoot, but they're not all kill shots, and when they are you'll have good reason for it."

"I sleep at night," Hanson said quietly.

They all nodded, and Clint took another drink. "Tell me about the perks," he said with a grin. Maybe he could relax just a little.

Except he couldn't. Two days later and Agent Coulson wasn't back, and someone decided Clint needed to take that spelling test anyway.

"It's regulation for anyone without a college degree," Agent Lewis told him coldly, holding a file folder in his hands.

"I thought Agent Coulson and the Director decided I didn't have to do it," Clint retorted angrily.

"They didn't bother asking HR," Lewis spat. "And some of us want to know what we're working with when you get assigned to us."

"A test is going to tell you that?" Clint asked, incredulous.

"It's going to help. Now sit down and do this, Barton."

Clint sighed. He didn't want to start out on the wrong foot here, and yes, he'd decided to stay at least for a while, but if he took the test he'd start out wrong. If he _didn't_ take the test he'd start out wrong. He resigned himself to taking it and grabbed the file out of Lewis' hands, ignoring the pain at his heels.

He couldn't do half the math questions because fourth grade math doesn't quite cover algebra, and the history and science questions were a wash before he even looked at them. Fourth grade had been state history year, and there didn't happen to be any questions about Iowa on the test. He fumbled through the reading section all right, but he didn't even get two paragraphs into the writing section before Lewis was back saying his time was up.

Clint wanted to slug him.

He didn't, but he stormed out of the testing room and back to his room. He threw himself down on the bed and curled into a ball, feeling stupid and sure that this place was way too smart for him. Rick just told him who to hit and he did it. Being smart wasn't required. He lay on his bed feeling his feet burn for a while, but then he got hungry.

He finally unfurled and he left his room and headed for the mess. On the way there the walls started closing in, though, the flames at his feet sent shards of pain up his legs, and he realized that he hadn't seen the stars in two weeks.

He'd managed to find schematics of the base in his wanderings through the library, although they had plenty of sections marked off as classified, and he went through it in his head and then went for the nearest stairwell. Fifteen minutes, a few air vents, and a slightly painful but exhilarating climb of about eight feet up the side of the building and he was on the roof, lying on his back, looking up at the night sky.

After a bit he sat up and massaged his feet, trying to beat down the flames of embarrassment that the test brought out. He knew it wasn't his fault that he doesn't have a formal education, but figured he's not going to stay here if it keeps getting thrown in his face. He rested his head on his knee and then heard a sound behind him. There's a roof access that Clint couldn't get to himself, and it opened, revealing Agent Coulson stepping out. He limped over to Clint and sat down next to him.

"You okay, sir? You look like hell," Clint asked, giving the agent a once-over. His suit was rumpled and stained, and he had a butterfly bandage above his right eye, to say nothing of the limp.

"A few scrapes and bruises, Barton. Average mission," Agent Coulson replied, looking back at Clint evenly. "I heard you had to take the test after all," he said quietly, pouring an apology into the statement.

Clint shrugged. "Yeah, well, I'm sure I failed it, so now everyone knows I can't spell. That's okay, though. Prison doesn't require a degree. I'll be okay there." He rubs at his feet absently.

"You're not going to prison, Clint," Agent Coulson said. "The test doesn't matter. Lewis is an ass who doesn't pay attention, and the Director is tearing into him as we speak. He shouldn't have made you do that."

Clint chuckled. "I did fail, though, right?" And he clasped his hands behind his head and looked up at the night sky. "You know, I haven't slept inside this much when the weather's this good in a long time. In the circus we'd drag blankets out to the edge of the camp and sleep there if it was warm enough. The trailers were cramped and uncomfortable anyway. Then when I left there I'd just sleep on the street if I had to and would find my way to the outskirts of the city any time I could and slept in a field. I always sleep better outside."

Clint didn't know why he was telling Agent Coulson this; maybe so the guy wouldn't feel too bad about booting Clint to the curb, even if they didn't send him to prison.

"You did fail, Clint. And you can't sleep out here. But the test really doesn't matter if you want to sign on with us. You can sign on and we'll help you get a GED and if you want to go to college you can. You don't have to, though. You're smart enough for us, Clint. We just need to fill in some gaps." His voice was so gentle, so kind. Clint kept his eyes closed and just listened as Agent Coulson repeated some of the spiel he was using to reel Clint in.

"Did you talk to Hanson and the others about working for us?" Agent Coulson finally asked.

"Yeah," Clint replied, opening his eyes. "They said as a sniper I wouldn't have to kill _every_ time I went out."

Agent Coulson smiled a little. "No. Not every time. You'd have other responsibilities."

Clint sighed. "That's cool. And I can look for Barney if I want to and you guys won't hurt him?"

"Not unless we have to, Clint."

Clint was quiet for a minute, processing that. It sounded fair, in the end. "Okay, I'll sign up."

He looked over as Agent Coulson stood and stretched, wincing a little. "Good," he said, looking down at Clint. "Can you get back in the way you came?"

Clint grinned and nodded.

"Right. Okay. Meet me at HR tomorrow morning. We'll get contracts drawn up," the agent said as he turned and headed back to the access point he'd used. "You can explain to the PT guys tomorrow why you're sore as hell, by the way. Goodnight, Barton."

"Good night, sir," Clint called.


	5. Chapter 5

Once the contracts were signed, Clint was thrown into classes and training. The fire at his feet was constant, and in the classes he quickly realized how many 'gaps' he had in his education ("You don't know what Marxism is?"). The physical training was easier, and he even managed to impress his training agent from time to time. ("What, were you raised in the circus, Barton?" was an especially fun moment. He denied it, of course.)

He got moved to different quarters, a little bit bigger than the guest quarters he'd been in, and the fire licked at his heels as he got used to having a good bed, constant access to square meals, and planned and monitored physical exercise. It was easier than ever to hone his body. He filled out, and he rediscovered his bow.

He hadn't been able to use it for years, but the agency had picked up his stuff from the locker at the bus station when they brought him in, and Agent Coulson handed it to him the day he signed his contract.

"Restricted range access at first, Barton. Monitored. We need to see what you can do."

Clint nodded and looked hungrily at the bow as Agent Coulson handed it over. He met the man's eyes for a moment and was a little embarrassed at the eagerness in his own face, but he couldn't help it. Agent Coulson let him go to the range right away and Clint lost himself and the flames at his feet for two hours. He hadn't felt this good in years. They made him stop for dinner, and then they handed him a schedule of times he was allowed down there. He took every slot available.

He saw less and less of Agent Coulson, though, and as he learned more about the agency he realized that Coulson's guidance at the beginning had been special, and shouldn't be expected now that he was an official 'recruit.'

Clint missed him.

His days were busy, busier than they had ever been in his life, really, and he was learning about being challenged. It didn't always go well. His frustration levels at the classes he had to take rose so high once that he violated his range access, lost his shit at the guy who ordered him off the range (he hollered so loud and hit the guy so hard that he reminded himself of his father and the flames rose ominously), and they ordered him to go back and talk to Finch. His feet hurt so badly that she caught him limping into her office.

"Are you hurt?" she asked, handing him a glass of ice water as he threw himself into a chair.

"No, ma'am. Just tired," he deflected, taking a gulp of the water and looking away. He really didn't want to talk to her, no matter how nice she was. So he sat in silence, eyes averted, until she finally spoke up.

"Agent Matthews has a broken nose, they said. Care to explain why?" her voice was gentle, almost like Coulson's, but his feet flared and he leaned forward, cringing.

"No ma'am," he said, figuring honest could work in his favor here.

"They also say they're going to kick you out if you overreact like that again."

He sighed and shrugged. "Seems fair."

She cocked her head at him. "They say you're struggling in a few of your classes. How are you handling that?"

He rubbed a hand down his face. He was only twenty-two, but he suddenly felt older. "I'm studying for my GED. Maybe once I get that it'll help."

She nodded. "Maybe a little. It's a fairly broad test, though. What kinds of things are throwing you off?"

"Agent Coulson called them 'gaps,' but they're more like chasms," Clint muttered, looking up at her. "I have to look half the shit that the instructor says up, and I can't do that until I'm in the library, so I spend half the classes just writing down words and stuff I don't understand, and by the time I look them up I'm completely lost." He paused, and then added, "I look like an idiot."

Finch shuffled through the papers on her lap. "You're in the library looking 'shit' up a lot, though. You're clearly working hard to understand."

"Yeah," he replied, "I have to."

"Is that why you violated your range access?" she asked.

He laughed mirthlessly and his voice dropped low. "I violated my range access because it's the only place I can clear my head and not feel like I'm burning all the damn time. They want to restrict that? Fine, but I'll ignore it if I have to."

There was silence. He looked over at her and she was just staring at him. "What?" he asked.

"Can you tell me what you mean by 'burning all the damn time'?" she said evenly.

He dropped his head to his hands. He didn't mean to say that. He tried to brush it off. "Just-you know, angry. I feel angry after my classes."

She stared at him again and let minutes pass. She finally said, "How hot?"

He looked up sharply to see her smiling at him. He leaned back and sighed. "Hot. I wish I knew more of this stuff."

"You've only been here a few months. Have you made some friends?"

He shrugged and said, "Yeah, a few."

"Maybe you could go out with them instead of violating your access?"

"And drown my sorrows? I don't drink," he replied.

"Not everyone does," she retorted.

"Well, I'm not here to be social, doc. It's not my strong suit." He heard the resignation in his own voice.

"You have to get some rest and find another outlet for your anger, Clint," she said gently.

He stood and shrugged. "Maybe I'll take up video games. Can I go?"

She looked at him resolutely for a moment and then nodded. "Same time next week," she said, and, after a moment, he nodded. He'd put up with this if he got his range access back.

Four very long months later, he got his GED, was cleared as a probationary agent, and went out on his first mission. He was part of a six-man team, and it was a mission where 'probies' were teamed with full field agents and were really just there as back up. It was an intel gathering mission and Clint and the other sniper were there only for a worst-case scenario. Clint was nervous anyway, and the fire threatened to flare. This whole team thing was foreign and downright weird.

He figured out one of the downsides to the team thing pretty quickly.

"Why are we setting up there?" he murmured to Winston, the sniper he was paired with. They were doing the mission briefing and Clint was trying to be discreet. He really had no idea why they'd picked this place when he could see at least three better places from the photo surveillance.

Winston, a veteran of fifteen years, looked over at Clint and just glared. Agent Stanton was the one running the debriefing and he noticed. "What's the problem, Barton?" he asked, his voice hard.

Clint looked up. "I was just wondering about the choice of sniper perch, sir. I thought –"

Stanton interrupted. "You're here to learn; Agent Winston and I have chosen the perch carefully. Can we move on?"

Clint nodded and felt his face grow hot. "Yes, sir," he said, and put his head down, looking back at the file in front of him.

Later, when they arrived at the insertion point and made their way to the actual roof that had been chosen, Clint's suspicions were confirmed. It was too wide from the office they were watching. Winston and Stanton had to spend several minutes choosing another perch, and when Clint tried to make a recommendation he was greeted with icy stares. They ended up choosing a decent place, but not Clint's first choice.

The mission went off smoothly from there, and the team was back at base in two days. Stanton did Clint's review, writing that overall Clint did well, but he needed to work on following orders. Clint wanted to protest, but he'd never worked for an organization like this before and didn't want to screw it up.

He kept his mouth shut.

The next mission started well.

It was a week after the first one, and it was an out of the country op, and smaller. There was only a four-man team this time: Clint and Winston as snipers, Leeman on covert, and Stanton as their handler. This was looking like a true sniping mission, one where the target had to be taken out, and fast. Stanton said they'd just received intel that the mark was going to rabbit after one last engagement, and they had to catch him within four days. Clint was given orders to be the backup in case something went wrong on Winston's end.

Clint had never been out of the country. He managed to keep himself professional, but being twenty-two and heading to Paris, of all places, he was probably more excited in general than he should have been. Not that he'd get to see a whole lot. Regardless, he took the articles about Paris and the warehouse district he'd dug up in the library, and read them on the plane after he memorized the briefing notes as Agent Coulson had suggested he start doing on missions.

They flew in at night, and were taken to a safe house right away. The last mission Clint was on didn't use a safe house, so this was new for him as well. It was a small apartment not far from the district where their mark would be meeting in two days. The apartment was sparse, two twin beds and a couch in one room, with a bathroom tucked in the back and a small kitchen with a two-burner stove.

Clint had a duffel bag with his shooting equipment and two sets of clothes, as well as his knife set that he decided would travel with him wherever he went. He also had the paperback copy of _Ender's Game_ that Agent Coulson had thrown at him as he was leaving. It was three in the morning now, Paris time, so he just dumped his bag in a corner, asked Stanton if he could sleep for a while, and took the couch.

The next morning, he went with Winston to scope out the area while Leeman headed out to find the mark. They spent four hours walking the neighborhood, memorizing streets and routes to the extraction point, and then they spent the afternoon working on choosing their spots. Winston turned out to be a pretty good teacher when Stanton wasn't around. He let Clint pick three spots and then explained why two of them were good choices but the third just couldn't work for this kind of mission.

They reported back to Agent Stanton that night and crashed after eating and reading for a while. In the morning, Clint's feet were warm as he packed his bag, ate a light breakfast, and tried to prepare himself for their hit that night.

Leeman was on covert duty, so he left early to catch the mark and tail him to make sure he ended up in the right spot for Winston to take him out, and Clint was sent to his perch.

The weather was rainy and cool. Not bad enough to be a distraction, but after two hours on the roof of a warehouse, Clint was soaked through and waiting eagerly for Leeman to report the target spotted. It was another hour before that happened.

"Target acquired," Leeman finally said over the comms. "In range in … approximately fifteen. Approach C."

Approach C was less than ideal for Clint. He understood why he was placed where he was for approaches A, B, and E, but for C and D he was leery, and he'd said so. Winston had agreed, but A and E were most likely to be used, and he had convinced Clint he could make C and D work. Stanton had insisted.

"Hold position, agents," Stanton said calmly over the comms. "Sniper One, you have permission to shoot at your discretion. Sniper Two, hold for orders."

Clint got this part of the team thing, too. Stanton had a bird's eye view of things and orders like this were based on what he could see, not on what Clint could see. In the end, though, even things that made sense on paper could suddenly look whacked out in the field, and accounting for other guys when that happened wasn't something Clint was used to doing.

So when Leeman unexpectedly got made by the target and his bodyguards started scanning for shooters, Clint made a split-second decision. Winston was the primary shot, and he still had a good position. Leeman was caught in the open, though, and Clint wasn't in a good spot to protect him. He saw a good spot, though, and took off running across his rooftop to leap across to another one. It would get him where he needed to be and it would draw attention away from Winston.

He didn't stop to think what Stanton would do.

"Sniper Two hold your position!" Stanton yelled across the comms as Clint rose from his perch and took off running. "Shit! Sniper One, cover!"

As Clint leapt across the rooftops, the mark's bodyguards saw him and opened fire. Clint was quick, though, and tucked into the next roof lithely and came up shooting. He took out two of the bodyguards and saw Leeman duck down an alley, safe. At the same time, Winston fired on the target, but he'd ducked behind a car when the chaos hit, so Winston fired on the bodyguards, too. This opened his position like a curtain being pulled.

The guard not hit fired on Winston and Clint realized too late what had happened. He stood quickly and realized he had a good angle on the mark, so he took him out with one deft shot. Leeman had emerged from his alleyway and took out a bodyguard, sending the other bodyguard running, and Clint took him out easily.

The street was suddenly quiet.

"Goddamn it!" Stanton growled. "Agent Three, go check on Winston. He's quiet. Sniper Two, get your ass to the extraction point. Now."

Clint stood still, feet burning as he disobeyed and waited to hear about Winston. A minute later as Leeman made his way to Winston's perch, the words "He's dead, sir," crashed into Clint's ear. He looked at the gun in his hand, felt the fire flare accusingly at his feet, and forced himself to head to the extraction point a few blocks away. He climbed into the sleek, black car and tucked himself into a corner as it proceeded to go pick up Leeman, who was carrying Winston's body.

When Leeman climbed into the car after depositing the corpse in the trunk of the car, Clint clenched his eyes shut and ignored Leeman's stare.

By the time he climbed into the plane taking them back to headquarters, his feet were almost unbearable.

Stanton climbed wordlessly onto the plane and sat down across from Clint. With a weary shrug of his shoulders he said, "Get some sleep. We'll debrief at headquarters." It was eight hours before they finally made it back to headquarters, and Clint didn't sleep at all. He sat stiffly on the plane, showered and changed at headquarters, and then sat at the conference table waiting for the briefing to start. He rubbed at his feet when he could and pictured the three minute scene over and over in his head.

"Agent Barton, why the hell did you change positions?" Agent Stanton finally asked during the second hour of the debriefing

Clint had been staring blankly ahead during most of the meeting, but he looked over at Leeman now, who was sitting with his hands around a white paper cup of coffee, glaring at Clint. "Agent Leeman was exposed, sir. I was switching so I could get a better shot on the men shooting at him."

"That move exposed Agent Winston, you idiot!" Leeman said, quietly.

Clint was silent. He didn't have any sort of response to the accusation since it was true, so he didn't say anything. He sat through the rest of the debriefing trying not to rub at his feet, trying to pay attention, and it finally ended.

"Report back to me in forty eight hours, Agent Barton," Stanton said when they were finally finished. "We'll discuss areas for improvement then." His voice was icy.

Clint nodded and stood. He felt his clothes sticking to his skin and his feet were burning hot, and it matched his mood. He made his way to the locker room and changed out of the rank gear into clean cargo pants and a grey t-shirt. He threw on clean socks and his boots, and went the only place he could count on being safe.

He hadn't slept in 25 hours, but all he could see was Winston's easy grin and his kind face as he pointed out possible perches to Clint and listened to Clint's reasoning. Every time he blinked, he saw Winston on the plane over to Paris, sprawled on the safe house bed, guiding Clint's line of sight to the approaches the target might take. The range and his bow were the only thing he knew might quell the fire and dampen the visions of Winston in his head.

He logged onto the range at nine-thirty in the morning. Agent Coulson found him there at twelve thirty. He was wearing a navy blue suit with a red and blue tie, and he stepped into Clint's space without Clint noticing his presence.

"Agent Barton, put down your bow," Agent Coulson said, his voice steely and cold. It startled Clint, and reminded him of Stanton's command to go see him in forty eight hours. Surely he wasn't late?

The fire at Clint's feet still smoldered, despite three hours of firing his bow. It was better than before, but the range hadn't quelled the flames the way it usually did. He couldn't get Winston's voice out of his head, couldn't stop thinking about what would have happened if he had just stayed where he was told.

As the senior agent now commanded Clint to cease fire, Clint closed his eyes, listening to that voice, and did as it asked. His arm shook as he lowered the bow, and after a moment Clint felt the bow being lifted from his hands. He opened his eyes and looked at Agent Coulson, who was setting it gently down on the nearby table. He turned to Clint and gestured at Clint's hands.

"Your fingers are bleeding," he said simply.

Clint looked down and realized Agent Coulson was right. There was blood on the tips of his fingers, so he picked up a rag from his bow case and wiped at them. Agent Coulson took a step toward Clint, but that startled him. He stepped back, gripping the rag tightly and staring at Agent Coulson, who had also stepped away from Clint.

"Come with me, Agent Barton, please," he said gently. "I'll have a junior agent bring your bow to my office."

Clint moved at that, shaking his head and taking the bow from the table, placing it carefully in its case, and snapping the case shut before looking back up at Agent Coulson, who simply nodded and gestured toward the door. Clint followed him, carrying the bow case and keeping the rag wrapped around his bloody fingers.

As they left the range, Clint's feet flared again, and as they traversed the hallways back to Agent Coulson's office, somewhere Clint realized he'd never been before, Clint felt every hour of the twenty-eight he'd been awake sink further into his steps. By the time they reached Coulson's office, Clint was limping again, and he felt leaden and numb. He knew Coulson was going to ask him about Winston, but he didn't know what he was going to say.

Agent Coulson opened the door and gestured Clint in, and Clint stepped in and looked around. There was a large wooden desk facing the door about ten feet in front of him, and there were two comfortable-looking brown leather cushioned chairs facing the desk. The papers and files on the desk were neat, but there were a lot of them, and the small computer looked a little out of place amidst all of the stacks. There was an old-fashioned bronze finished banker's lamp on one corner of the desk, and a small planter holding a tiny fern right next to it.

There was another standing lamp in the far corner of the office, but it was on low, too, so the place seemed warm and inviting. It was the couch that caught Clint's eye, though. It matched the brown leather chairs, and it was long with thick leather cushions and tiny brass buttons lining the edges. The armrests seemed huge, pillow-like, and the cherry wood legs added to the warmth of the room. Clint wanted to sink down into it and sleep forever.

There was a coffee table made from an old steamer trunk in front of the couch, with two more planters filled with leafy, sturdy-looking plants. In the middle of the steamer trunk was a small rock fountain that was running, filling the room with the calming sound of a stream. Clint looked around again and saw that the walls were painted light beige, and there were two pieces of framed art above the couch. One was a simple print, yellow paint bleeding into orange from top to bottom with a black frame. Next to it was a landscape painted in yellows, browns, and oranges. They were both soothing to look at.

Clint didn't realize he had stalled in the doorway until Agent Coulson gently pushed past him, pulling the office door shut behind him. He stood aside as Clint looked around, and then reached down and took the bow case from Clint's hands and set it down next to the coffee table. Clint felt him take it from him, but he was too busy drinking in the office to care.

When the agent shut the door, the room got even quieter, the only sound coming from the fountain. Clint listened to it, letting it wash over his fatigue, and he swore it pulled at him, tugged at the tightly wound muscles in his shoulders, letting him relax, be at ease for an unexpected moment. He caught himself taking a deep breath, and letting it out as he closed his eyes and realized something else.

His feet didn't hurt. He had limped into this office expecting to talk through the mission, to explain how it was his fault that Winston was dead, that he made a rookie mistake that cost a good agent his life. He expected the fire to roar in front of Agent Coulson, whose opinion seemed to matter more than anyone else's around here. But instead, the fire subsided, just like it usually did at the range. He felt his heels cool, and he looked down at his feet incredulously. The flames were gone.

"Barton, are you all right?" Agent Coulson asked after a moment, stepping a little closer to Clint, his eyes crinkling in concern.

Clint blinked hard and then looked up at him and nodded. "Yes, sir. I-" he paused to take another shuddering breath. With the fire gone from his feet, with the dim lit room with warm furniture, warm décor, and green plants scattered throughout the room, he felt his exhaustion crash into him unexpectedly and his knees started to buckle.

Coulson stepped forward and caught his elbow, threw an arm under Clint's shoulder and steered him toward the couch. "Easy, Barton. Stanton said you left the debriefing and headed straight for the range. He also said you didn't sleep on the trip back. You need to rest." He gently deposited Clint on the couch and pushed his shoulder gently so that Clint had to lie down. The leather cushions were warm and soft, and Clint sunk into them with a sigh.

"I'm sorry, sir," he muttered, forcing his eyes open to look at Agent Coulson.

The agent pursed his lips and nodded. "It's going to work out, Barton. It wasn't entirely your fault."

Clint felt tears threaten, but he took a deep breath and didn't let them fall. "He was a good agent," was all Clint could manage.

"Yes," Agent Coulson said, settling himself down on the coffee table in front of the couch. "But Stanton made a bad call when you switched positions, and Winston should have survived."

Clint tried to sit up and protest, but Agent Coulson shook his head. "You did make a mistake. We'll talk about it tomorrow, though, and it wasn't all on you." He paused and smiled. "We need to find someone you'll listen to, Agent. I think we can, and I think it'll have to be someone who listens to you, too. Sleep, and then we'll do some more debriefing and see who we can find."

Clint sank back into the cushions of the most comfortable couch he'd ever met and looked at the man sitting in front of him. He'd made a place for Clint, a place where his feet didn't burn and where Clint believed every word he said. He didn't absolve Clint of all of the blame, but it was enough. It was enough to let him close his eyes. To feel safe in this place, to feel cool again.

Clint slept, and when he woke hours later, Coulson was sitting at his desk, suit still in place, tie a little loosened, coffee at his elbow and paperwork in front of him. Clint watched him work for a few minutes before the senior agent looked up and gave him a small smile. He pushed himself back from the desk as Clint sat up, and when Clint put his feet on the ground they were still cool and flameless, and Coulson was offering him a cup of coffee, and maybe Clint was ready to talk.

Maybe here he could be honest. He had to be, he figured, if he wanted to keep this as a safe space where the flames wouldn't lick at his feet.

And he wanted that very badly, so he moved to a chair, took the coffee, and began to explain what happened.

* * *

**Thanks to dysprositos, once again! Thanks also for all the follows and reviews. I appreciate them a great deal. This ends this story- if you haven't read the sequel to this, "Fireproof," you can go check it out now! Kindly given constructive criticism is most welcome!**


End file.
